He ate and drank the precious Words —
His Spirit grew robust —
He knew no more that he was poor,
Nor that his frame was Dust —
But I lie. I embellish. My words are not deep enough, not savage enought. They disguise, they conceal. I will not rest until I have told of my descent into a sensuality which was as dark, as magnificent, as wild, as my moments of mystic creation have been dazzling, ecstatic, exalted.
All knowledge which ends in words will die as quickly as it came to life, with the exception of the written word: which is its mechanical part.